


Blessed Curses

by therutherfordwife



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Here there be dragons, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Past Torture, Possibly eventual smut if I don't chicken out, Revenge, Unstable protagonist, she gets better though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-01-26 13:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12558348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therutherfordwife/pseuds/therutherfordwife
Summary: Aikala is -wasthe youngest daughter of House Suda in Hammerfell when the unthinkable happened; her city fell to the Aldmeri Dominion, betrayed from within by her very own family.  Away from home to study in the north, Aikala survived the purge of the city and from the safety of the north organized resistance against the invaders of her home. Captured, tortured, and imprisoned, she is finally to be put to death along with a group of Nord rebels when a miracle occurs and she finds herself facing freedom for the first time in many years. She has one goal: find the woman who betrayed her family, and kill her. Anything else that happens along the way is just a distraction, and not worth her time or effort . . . right?





	1. Chapter 1

The wagon jostled slightly and Kala’s head bounced against the shoulder of the person next to her. The movement was enough to shake her back to a dim awareness, and as soon as she recognized the feeling of movement she jolted awake. Her head pounded (unusual) and her stomach felt like it was tying itself in knots in its want of food (usual), and despite the heavy hood over her head she could smell the freshness of clean mountain air and the warm scents of a nearby inn’s hearth. That hardly counted as unusual; that was downright suspicious. She was . . . outside? What had Rulindil told her? _The next time you see outside this cell will be the day you die._ Comforting; she had no doubt that his words were the pinnacle of truth in this case.

Murmuring voices distracted her. Someone spoke with hushed anger, about a war and a dead king and a voice that shouted death. It was hard to concentrate around the pulsing pain in her skull. She slowed her breathing and focused on dulling the pain as the wagon rolled to a stop and she was pulled roughly to her feet.

The hood was pulled from her head and she blinked in pain, momentarily blinded by the brilliant sun above her. _The sun_ she gasped slightly, eyes widening in spite of the pain. The _sky_. How long had it been? Years. It had been years since she’d seen either. She drank in the sight of mountains, far off valleys, _trees_ everywhere and the clouds floating easily above. _How many years since I have seen clouds?_ she thought in wondrous delight.

“You! Redguard! Your name?”

Rigidity fixed through her in an instant and she kept her face upturned as she leveled a glare out the corner of her eyes at the Nord growling at her. Imperials. Taking everything from her, take her family, her home, her life, and now they would not even leave her her name? So many years. Never before today had they cared to ask; she said nothing.

The soldier tried in vain for several more minutes to pry her name before giving up with a huff of anger. Kala paid him no mind, choosing instead to track the flight of a bird lazily across the sky. Her attention broke again when she was forced into line before the headsman’s block. Another Nord beside her tried to offer some comfort to her, the others, but she ignored him. He talked too much. And his companion hadn’t stopped staring at her . . .

Now _he_ was interesting. Someone important, no doubt, from his clothing. What he was doing with the rest of the rabble here was a curiosity she had no time for. Obviously a traitor. Obviously set to death. Nothing different between he and her in this moment except the fact that he’d no doubt never had the sky taken from him. Bastard. The thought made her hate him, and these others, that they probably thought so little of something so vital. 

She glared at him and was mildly surprised when he neither flinched nor broke his gaze. Few were willing to hold with eyes like hers, eyes bleached white by magic and torture and years of darkness. Torturers and guards alike had refused to meet her gaze for so long now that she found herself leaning toward this strangely intense Nord with a gag choking his voice.

And then she was being shoved again, forced to her knees and pushed down with her neck placed perfectly on the block. The headsman lifted his axe and Kala stared at the clouds, letting out a slow and steady breath to ease her body and mind. Dying was of no consequence. Death was a release, freedom at last after years. At least she was out under the sky. At least she could see the clouds as she died. She smiled as the man began to swing his axe.

Great wings blocked the sun and a thunderous roar shook the very stones beneath her as people scattered and screams rang through the village. Kala found herself on her back, blinking into a rain of fire and stone until rough hands were pulling her up and dragging her into a tower.

She stumbled against the steps, hands still bound behind her and landed heavily on her side as the men argued. The nobleman had removed his gag. His voice was sure and incongruously soft spoken from the hard lines of his face and the strength that he tried to hide under his fine robes. Kala ignored them; whatever their fight was was not her fight. A dragon! At the time of her execution? A sign. A new chance. A new _life._

Freedom.

Fiery determination boiled through her body at the thought. An impossibility not two days ago was now within reach; she had only to take it. When the talkative Nord made his way up the tower, shouting about escape, she followed, ducking back when the dragon broke a hole in the tower and boiled a man alive in his armor and then leaping unafraid through the hole to the inn across the way. The Nord didn’t follow, and she didn’t look back.

Darting out of the inn brought her face to face with the great black beast. It’s head swung around and for just a moment, their eyes met.

And then its jaws opened to fire and the moment passed, leaving Kala reeling from the intense moment of _kinship_ she’d felt with the dragon. Other hands grasped her arm and dragged her along then, the hands of the soldier who’d tried to steal her name. She struggled against him, but she was weak from her confinement and her bound hands did nothing to aid her. He only let go when confronted by the talkative Nord, somehow still alive and for some reason demanding her be released.

The soldier let her go.

Both men ran then, sprinting for the keep. Both called for her to follow. Both offered aid.

She turned and sprinted after the Nord.


	2. Chapter 2

Others awaited them inside, and there was a flurry of activity which saw her bonds cut. Kala rubbed her wrists; they were red from the ropes, but years of similar and worse bindings had built up a tough layer of scarring and thus her skin was unbroken. This time. One of these Nords had died, and Kala moved to take his armor when the talkative one held her back. “No offense, lass, but that’s better suited to one who’ll make use of it. Tallie! Come switch out, that armor’s too singed to do any good.”

Kala glared at the man. How dare he? Keeping her from weapons, from armor. Then her stomach curled in on itself, and she thought perhaps the man was right. She was in no condition to fight. The man did offer her a dagger, and she took it with a bloodthirsty grin that she could see unnerved him. Good. Let him see her anger. Let him withdraw from her in fear. She was Redguard, and her anger would be sated only with blood.

Despite her rage, she kept back from the skirmishes that marred their journey through the earth to freedom. Hunger made her weak. Years of disuse made her muscles weak. The dagger sang in her hand, but her fingers were awkward and stiff on the hilt. It wasn’t until they came to upon the torture chamber that she forgot her caution.

Raging screams tore from her throat as she threw herself upon the torturer, dagger flashing as she tore into the man. Blood covered her face, her hands, her chest as she stabbed him with wild fury, east strike reminding her of each new horror that had been inflicted upon her by a man such as this.

The Nords pulled her off of him. “He’s dead, lass! He’s dead! Stop this, you’re going to hurt yourself!” hollered the talkative one, hands on her shoulders holding her back from her rage. Her chest heaved with the effort, eyes burning with tears she refused to shed in front of these strangers. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Whatever they did to you, it’s over, lass.” 

She let him pull her after him once more, leaving behind the stink of torture.

 

The village on the mountain burned, smoke curling in the distance, but the village by the river smelled only of fresh cut wood and hearth meals. Kala stood apart from where the man, Ralof, spoke in hushed tones to his sister, describing the events that had brought them here. The river slowed swiftly but peacefully here. She waded in, bit by bit, the cool caress of water such a strange sensation after so long. Idly she considered what she would need to do to in exchange for some soaps and a brush.

“There’s some food here if you’re hungry, and some mead. And I talked to Ralof; whatever you need for your journey is yours.” 

Gerdur watched her closely, as if afraid the smallest misstep would lead to Kala doing something rash. She needn’t have worried; Kala was only ever rash about two things, and logging women were not one of them. She took the bread and meat gratefully but forwent the mead. Water from the river would do just as well. As she took a careful bite in an effort to hide her hunger, she gestured vaguely at the river.

The woman eyed her warily. “Do you not speak, child?”

Kala gestured again, then this time also grabbed at her blood spattered clothes and hair.

Gerdur caught on and nodded sagely. “Aye, I’ll bring you some soap. And I’ll see about a set of spare clothes for you, though they’ll be big for certain. Wait here.”

Kala nodded and waded further into the river. Stacks of lumber would keep the villagers from spying her, not that she was particularly concerned. The chill caress of the water was well worth any stares she might draw from unruly eyes. Besides, their opinions mattered to her not at all.

Sinking happily into the water, Kala let it wash away the worst of the blood and marvelled at the way the layers of dirt stripped away from her arms to reveal the delicate skin underneath. She hadn’t been clean in so long. Suddenly her clothes were too much. Too dirty, too blood-soaked, too old; she’d worn the same torn rags for far too long. Shedding the tattered cloths, she felt for the first time that this freedom might be real, might last longer than a dream this time. 

A gasp behind her had her whirling, arms raised defensively until she realized it was simply Gerdur come with soap and clothes. The Nord woman was staring at her in horror. Dropping her armload, she waded into the river and deftly caught Kala’s arms, lightly but firmly tugging this way and that, turning her whichever way she would. Kala let her; she knew what caught the woman’s gaze. 

“Who did this to you, child?” the woman whispered finally, once her inspection was complete. “What have you endured?”

Molten anger settled in Kala’s stomach. Her tongue, long unused to forming words, felt think inside her mouth as her throat fought to bring forth a word after her long-imposed silence. “Thalmor,” she spat, voice harsh and full of gravel. Tianem would be horrified to hear the croak she expelled. She reminded herself roughly that Tianem, like the others, was dead.

“Bastards,” Gerdur hissed. She seemed to make a decision, and waded back for the soap. “Sit. We’ll start from the top.”

An hour later Kala sat huddled, clean and clothed, on a bed with a full stomach. Gerdur had washed her hair with the gentlest touch, and then had tenderly helped Kala clean the dirt from her back, fingers so careful against her scars. The experience had been . . . well, unnerving was not the right word. Her touch had not made her afraid; it had made her sad.

It was no longer in her memory the last time that she had felt a tender touch of any kind. Surely while in Elinhir? Certainly not since. What had it been? Had she embraced Kamala? Grasped hands with Tianem? Perhaps she had played with little Atia, and the child had laughed and clung to her. The memories were so distant now. They slid away from her remembering like sand fell through an hourglass, and it had been a blessing that Gerdur had ignored her silent tears. That woman, Kala had decided, had far more sense than her brother.

She could hear them now arguing in the room above her head. They thought her sleeping. She should be sleeping. Sleep would help, would rest her for the days to come. But Kala was reluctant to enter that void; the things that waited for her there were rarely pleasant, and she feared that should she sleep, she would find that this day would be only in her mind. 

Ralof was speaking of his ‘Stormcloaks’, and the events of the day. The nobleman that had seemed so interested in her was apparently a Jarl. Interesting. And even moreso, he was a Jarl at the center of a rebellion. That was . . . good. Excellent, even. The Empire was no friend of anyone. Skyrim would be well rid of their shackles; everyone knew that the Aldmeri Dominion held the true power in the Empire.

He had encouraged her to join them. _”Go to Windhelm,”_ he’d said. _”Join us. Fight against the Empire.”_

Fighting she could do. Kala flexed her fingers carefully; she would need to train, certainly. She was years out of practice now. But at her best, not starved, not beaten . . . 

Kematu had called her ‘Blade Dancer’ for her skill with knives. She could fight. There was nothing for her to return home to. Nothing for her to hide from. No family, except the Traitor. And in order to find her, she would need help. Resources. Things that a former prisoner did not have. The only thing left to her was her name, and perhaps she could barter that to this Ulfric. Offer her blades for his aid in finding the Traitor.

She clenched her hand. Yes. But first, she needed to heal. Needed to train. Learn again what it was to hold a blade, to strike with one, to fight and hear the music of the blades. 

The next morning, she was given a bow, a dagger, and an old sword. Gerdur and her husband handed her a pack of food, Ralof an old set of leather armor. She nodded her thanks, knowing she would repay them in the future.

She left without looking back


	3. Chapter 3

Recovery was slow. Kala was not stupid; she knew it would be, knew that the wounds of her soul would be far fiercer to heal than the wounds of her body. That didn’t mean the process wasn’t _frustrating._

The weeks since leaving Riverwood she’d come of two minds. One, that she was right in seeking a safe place to recover alone, and the other that she would fare better with some kind of support. But support meant trust, and trust was something she was loathe to give out. It was pure chance that she’d been caught by a storm three days west of Riverwood and found shelter in an abandoned hut; once she’d cleared the skeevers and found the owner dead, she’d simply set herself there.

The dean man’s supplies kept to her needs for the time it took her to train her bow strength back. The deer were plentiful, the skeevers were annoying, and the road was quiet. It was perfect for her needs.

Occasional travellers interrupted her routine rarely, and she usually paid them no mind except to gauge their threat to her. Most passed swiftly, a nod or a friendly wave as they moved by. A few tried to stop for conversation, but left in a huff when it was clear she had nothing to say. One strange bard had appeared at dusk, spent an hour prattling at her without a care that she didn’t respond, and had spent the night sleeping on a haybale behind the hut. The next day he’d sung the entire morning away before bowing gracefully, tossing her an apple, and departing as abruptly as he came, his song disappearing in the distance. She thought of him fondly.

It was two weeks after her arrival at the hut that she saw her second dragon. Waking in the night, she heard a distant roar and the whooshing of massive wings and had bolted outside, bow and sword ready. The beast had been high in the sky, an inky blot against the stars, and had circled the area twice before disappearing to the east. This one was different from the one in Haven, of that she was certain; how she knew, she could not tell. The fact that dragons were once again flying the skies of Tamriel was both strange and concerning, but she put those worries aside. She had more important things to worry about.

Two months passed before she made her first journey into Rorikstead to offer the innkeeper meat from her hunts. Another before she stopped jumping at every noise in the village. _Progress,_ she thought to herself. Slow, agonizing progress. It wasn’t until Erik came to her, blustering about facing down some of her kin, that she finally spoke more than three words to anyone.

“Who are these kin of mine?” she said sharply. Mralki, from behind the counter of his inn, looked up in surprise. A month of supplying deer meat and hide twice a week and she’d not said five words at a time to him yet.

“Pair of heavy-handed warriors east of town. Claimed they’d been forced out of Whiterun and were looking for a scar-faced Redguard woman.” He and his father both paused and glanced at Kala’s own face, and the scar that crossed her cheekbone. “I told them to sod off, we’d have none of their kind in our town. We like our peace.”

“Warriors? Of what kind?”

Erik shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know, the fighting kind? They were dressed strangely though. Heads wrapped, all of their clothing loose. And their swords were fair strange. Curved, they were.”

Kala unceremoniously dumped her bag of goods on Mralki’s counter and turned without another word. _Impossible!_ she thought. _They wouldn’t be in Skyrim, would they? What reason could they possibly have?_

Darting outside, she blinked against the late summer sun and started jogging down the road to the east, eyes straining for any sign of the warriors. Erik had only come back in the last quarter hour, they couldn’t have gotten far . . .

There.

Two of them, unmistakable Alik’ir warriors strolling casually down the road. One tall, the other regular height but walking with a very distinctive roll to his stride that Kala would have recognized in her sleep. She whooped in delight, the echo of her shout pulling both men up short as she picked up speed until she was sprinting toward them.

“Jaran!” she shrieked, leaping into the surprised man’s arms and ignoring the way his fellow went for his blade. “Jaran, Jaran,” Kala practically chanted, chest tightening with pain at the remembrance of how long she’d missed him and then releasing explosively with joy that they were together again. 

Jaran stumbled when she leapt upon him, but as they tumbled to the ground together he began to laugh in disbelief. “Kala?! Is that you? How are you alive?”

“Brother, who is this woman?” interrupted the second man.

Kala did so much as glance at him. “Is Uncle here as well? And the others?”

“Father is here, and the others that could be spared. We’ve occupied a cave just further east of here. He’ll want to see you immediately, Kala. We all thought you dead long ago.” He pushed her gently off of him, holding her at arm’s length and eyeing her critically. “The years have not been kind to you, have they, Cousin?” he said softly.

The sound of a sword being pulled from a sheath cut off any response and Kala felt the tip of a blade in her back. “I will only ask once more who this woman is, to bear such a scar and be treated so by you, Brother.”

Quick as lightning Kala twisted, knocking the blade’s tip from her back and flicking his wrist hard enough to send the sword spinning out of his grasp. A swift kick to the knee, a strike to his elbow and before the man could so much as curse at her, her dagger was at his throat. “I am Aikala of House Suda, niece of Kematu and Blade-Dancer of the Alik’ir. You would do well to use what is between your ears before drawing your blade next time, _Brother,_ ” she said strongly.

His eyes widened in awe. The man was young and stupid, she saw, hotheaded but not ill-intentioned. That he was paired with Jaran spoke of his probably skill. Seeing that he would not strike her, she helped him up and turned to her cousin. “Take me to Uncle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Jaran and Kala's use of the word "Brother" is meant as a brother-in-arms kind of way, not a biological way.


	4. Chapter 4

“Aikala of House Suda. We thought you were dead.”

“No more so than Ramata. A fact that I wish to remedy as soon as possible.”

The corner of Kematu’s mouth quirked upwards slightly and he stood abruptly. Before Kala could move, the large man had her wrapped in an enveloping hug, crushing her to his chest.

Kala froze. She couldn’t remember . . . When had she last felt a touch that wasn't meant to bring harm? That was wholly and entirely meant for nothing but comfort. Part of her wanted to run as her skin crawled with the beaten-in fear that such touch could only end in pain. After several seconds of internal fighting, she gasped slightly and collapsed into the embrace.

“Your loss devastated us,” he whispered into her ear. “I have missed you, my niece.”

“And I, you.” Her voice was muffled by his shoulder and she was grateful; the others wouldn’t have heard the way her voice broke. 

He gave her a tight squeeze before pulling away and proclaiming to the cavern. “Our sister returns to us! As Leki guides her sword, so has she led her feet to return to us. We welcome our sister home!”

The cavern rang with the cheers of the assorted Alik'r, and Kala deigned to show a small half-smile. A cave in Skyrim was hardly home, of course, but the Alik'r had always put far more stock on home being the people, not the place. 

Many crowded forward to greet her, men and women she knew from her time of training with the desert warriors. People she knew, people she would trust with her life, but seeing them all rushing forward, clamoring in excitement, something in her hardened with an anxiety she was ashamed to feel.

Jaran noticed first, saw her eyes widen in fear as everyone crowded in and pushed his way to her side. “This sister has had a long, hard journey! We must let her rest, and we can all speak our comforts tomorrow after she has had the opportunity to rest and recover.” And without waiting for their reactions, he pulled her from the people and led her down a passage of the caves to a small room with several beds. 

Kala’s breathing was heavy, but not from any exertion. She hadn’t expected the way her heart had jumped with fear to have so many so close and _loud._ “I am sorry, Jaran. This should be a happier day.”

He shook his head. “Do not trouble yourself with our happiness, Kala. We are happy that you are alive. But Kala . . .” he eyed her carefully. “I have seen many over the years who have endured hardships from the wars, and a few who have endured worse at the hands of our enemies. And what I see in you is much like the latter.” He raised his hands to stop her as she opened her mouth to speak. “You do not have to tell me, Kala. Whatever happened is in the past, and it can stay there if you would rather. I fear that the healing of your heart will take far longer than the healing of your body, and if you should need to speak, I am always able to listen to you.”

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes but she forced them back. “Thank you, Jaran.”

He smiled. “I missed you, dearest cousin. I am glad to see you alive after all this time.” Standing, he leaned forward and gently pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Rest now. Tomorrow we will speak when the others are calm.”

Kala nodded and allowed herself to slip into oblivion as he left.

The next morning she sat beside her uncle at the table in the main chamber of the cave. They ate in silence, but as they pushed aside their plates he leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands clasped under his chin as he regarded her. “So. Tell me of your time taken from us.”

She sighed. “After my mother called me home, I led our house and the city against the Dominion. We were holding Taneth, waiting for aid from Skaven when the Dominion breached the city.” Her face went hard, old anger long stoked burning in her chest. “Ramata let them in. Led them in the dark and used the trust of the city to have the Great Houses open their gates to her. By the time we discovered her treachery, the city was lost.” 

She struggled with her next words, her tongue heavy. “Ramata came to me, crying of the invasion, saying my help was needed at the market. She . . . There was an ambush. The Thalmor lay in wait, and I was captured and taken for interrogation. After a time in the city, they sent me to Cyrodiil to a prison in the Jerall Mountains for political prisoners. I was to be executed some months ago, and was taken to a town called Helgen where several other political prisoners were to be put to death. Obviously, I escaped, and now I seek Ramata.”

Kematu regarded her carefully. “Does your escape have anything to do with the rumors of a dragon attacking the city?”

Kala nodded. “It was the distraction we needed. I escaped with several others, fighters called ‘Stormcloaks’. They fight the Empire, and the Dominion, and I believe they will help us find the traitor.”

“They fight a war. Why would they help us?”

“Because we will help them. Our aid for theirs. The deal is weighed in their favor; warriors, in return for their people keeping eyes open for Ramata. Five thousand can search much faster than fifty.”

Kematu pondered her words, and then with a sigh gestured to the side of the room. Two men left and returned carrying between them a large familiar chest. Kala stood abruptly and knelt before the chest, lifting the lid and gasping softly at the sight of carefully crafted armor within. Armor that had been passed down by the Alik'r since the dragons last freely flew the skies, armor crafted from the very bones of the great beasts.

“We have kept this with us according to Jaran’s dreams. It seems the gods favor you, Kala, but I must ask; are you certain you wish to do this? The last time you sought aid, you ended up in the hands of the Dominion.” 

“I am certain,” she declared as she began to pull on the armor that had been her right and hers alone by right of trial by combat. The armor of the Blade Dancer fit her as perfectly as it had the first time

“And what makes you so certain we will follow you in your quest?”

Kala straightened, facing her uncle with all of the strength and courage and rage she held within her slowly strengthening body. He had to ask the question, she knew, and did not fault him for it. By asking her here, in front of everyone, he ensured their unity in what was to come. “The Alik'r will aid me,” she stated as she slid her bracers into place, “because I declare blood feud.” She turned to face the rest of the room and spoke boldly. “By my right as the last honorable member of House Suda and the right of Leki’s champion of the Alik’r, I, Aikala Sudasa, declare a debt of blood against Ramata of No House. Satakal guide me, Alik'r follow me, and Remata flee from me until such time as her blood may be drawn by my blade.”

Awed silence followed her words and not a breath was taken as she pulled her dagger from her belt and drew it swiftly across her palm. Old, familiar power coursed through her blood with every heartbeat that bled for all to see, and she held her hand aloft, bleeding palm splayed to the heavens. “Satakal bless my quest and curse my enemies!” she cried.

Thunder erupted in the air around them and the very ground beneath their feet shuddered spectacularly. Cries of fear echoed after the thunder and only Kala stood unfazed in the midst of the chaos. When the noise died, silence reigned for several heartbeats before Kematu stepped forward and clasped her forearm. “By right of blood, and blood of rite as witnessed by the gods, we will stand with you until your quest is done, Blade Dancer.”

Not an hour later she stood at the mouth of the cave with Jaran and Kematu, pack slung over her back and armored as she hadn’t been in years. The armor, masterworks of craftsmanship from a time long past had been given from generation to generation of her family and had been hidden during the last days of the war, when Taneth was beyond hope of saving. Guilt clawed at her chest over the fall of her city, but she pushed it aside with the ease of long practice. What happened was not her fault, and the scars she bore were signs that she lived and witness to the struggle to do so. She hadn’t stepped aside and let the Dominion in; she’d _fought_ , with everything she was and everything she had, and in the end she had been betrayed. They all had been.

“Are you certain you are ready?”

Kala’s eyes were on the horizon, never leaving even as she addressed her uncle. “Satakal would not have accepted the blood oath were I not capable, Uncle.”

“Capable does not ensure success, niece. The gods give their blessings to that which will test us the most; if you are not fully recovered, your life may be forfeit before you even find Remata.”

Her eyes hardened. “There is little I can do to recover here that I cannot also do while searching. I will find us more aid, Uncle, that we may return home quickly with the traitor.” She sighed. “I will see the sands of our desert again, and nothing will stand in my way.”

Jaran touched her shoulder lightly. “You have our support, Kala. Our men are already scouring the country. Speak to the Stormcloak king, and between us and him she will have nowhere left to hide.” He hesitated a moment, then pulled her into a tight embrace. She stiffened reflexively before reminding herself that this was Jaran, her cousin, and she carefully returned the gesture before pulling away. 

“Leki guide your blades, warriors.”

Uncle and cousin inclined their heads toward her in a gesture of respect. “Yours as well, niece. Stay safe.”

Kala didn’t speak further. Turning to the east, armored and stronger than she had been in recent memory, she set off after the future.


End file.
